


Rain

by Cainz



Category: John Wick (Comics), John Wick (Movies), John Wick (Movies) RPF
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Dominant Winston, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, One Shot, Panic Attacks, S&M, Spanking, Submissive John Wick, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cainz/pseuds/Cainz
Summary: Sometimes John needed a bit of help to keep the voices from getting to him, needed to feel hurt, to know that he was alive and Sir had always been there to take control.orAfter a particularly brutal job, he drags himself to Winston's doorstep to ask for help once more.
Relationships: John Wick & Winston, John Wick/Winston
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Rain

He was sat in his favorite chair, a half finished glass of scotch placed neatly on a table nearby, and listened to the soft noise of rain outside. It had been raining for days now, but Winston couldn’t find it in himself to mind. Rain was peace. The water was cold, harsh against the skin and devoured all warmth from whatever it touched, but it also washed away the grime of past times. It created life where there formerly was none. It was not enjoyable, some may even consider it a bad omen, but to him it was a sign of a trial well passed. A new chapter was beginning, now the old one needed to be put to rest.

He sighed, closing his eyes and felt himself slowly succumb to peaceful slumber.

Frantic knocking woke him only minutes later. His staff knew not to disturb him at such a late hour and most guests didn’t know where his personal quarters were located, but there were some that did, none of which were currently residing at The Continental. Well, none of them _were_ residing at The Continental when he had last checked before retreating to his rooms for the night. He had a slight feeling of who might be checking in this late and, of all things to do at this hour, choosing to spend his time visiting him, but suppressed the urge to confirm his theory with the reception.

Despite the panicked knocking, which had now long subsided, he took his time. Scotch in hand, he smoothed his ruffled hair and adjusted his scarf, before opening the door to reveal a blood-soaked John Wick.

“John.”, he acknowledged him.

John was leaning heavily against the door frame, his body shaken by tremors, his face sweaty and showing every ounce of the pain he must’ve been feeling in that exact moment. Still John didn’t look at him, instead forcing his eyes shut and letting his rain drenched hair fall in front of his face. It was only now that he realized just how drenched the man was, certainly this wasn’t just from the rain.

“John.”, Winston spoke again, trying to elicit a reaction from the man in front of him, but again was disappointed. “Do come in.”

But John didn’t move, either passed out from pain, sleep deprivation, exhaustion, or he was simply unresponsive from whatever he was forced to do. This did happen sometimes, mostly to the newer folk, but some jobs rattle even the oldest of mercenaries. Sometimes all it took was a pat on the least bruised part of the back and a good drink, but there were other times. Times, where they would hide from the world, not eat, not sleep, for days alone with their own thoughts. There was nothing to be done about it, no way to help. They all had their demons to fight and those demons were the loudest when no one was around.

Sighing again, Winston placed his scotch on the cabinet next to him and simply lifted the man up to carry him inside. John was painfully cold to the touch, so cold in fact that it seemed as though all warmth had left his body, and his pale, colorless face gave a sharp contrast to his black suit

Hugging the man closer to his chest and ignoring the muffled groans and painful gasps, he dragged him to the bathroom and carefully laid him down on the plush rug. Seconds later, warm steam filled the room and wrapped itself around John, who was still lying where Winston had left him when he moved to turn the faucet on for the bath.

“I guess it’s time to assess the damage.”, Winston said, more to himself than to John.

He opened the buttons of John’s suit jacket and shirt and exposed what the crimson color soaking through both layers had already promised: A deep wound stretching from his lower ribcage to his side. Grabbing a clean towel, he folded it and pressed onto the wound to stop the bleeding. Then – and he felt sorry for John already – he turned him onto his stomach, putting a lot of weight on the open wound, to take off both the jacket and the shirt, which the man requited with another pained groan.

He turned him onto his back again and took off his shoes, pants and underwear as well, before pushing him upright and dragging him into the not even half full bath. It would do the wound no good to get soaked in water. Well, more than it already had, considering the state John’s clothes were in. But with the man finally warming up in the bath, his head resting comfortably on Winston’s shoulder, the hotel owner finally allowed himself to relax.

_He was safe. He would be fine. John Wick doesn’t just die._

They stayed like that for a long time. He didn’t know exactly how long, but long enough for color to come back to John’s face. A few minutes later his eyes fluttered open and the heavy motionless body began to move again, only to be stilled by Winston’s hand on his chest.

“Take it slow, John.”, he warned.

The man sunk back, submitting to whatever Winston planned to do.

“Press onto the wound for me.”

John simply nodded, taking over and pressing the towel against his lower rib. It stung and burnt, like he was pressing a thousand hot needles directly into his skin, but he knew he had to do it. Winston had ordered him to. It felt good to not have to think for once, to not be in control just this one time, despite all the pain and discomfort and… shame of being so helpless. And then suddenly he felt hands massaging his neck and all rational thought just vanished from his head.

“Tilt your head back, your hair needs washing.”

He did as he was told. He’d do anything to be able to continue feeling these gentle touches. The strong hands worked quickly and efficiently, but were soft nonetheless. Then Winston washed his hair with lukewarm water and massaged his scalp once more, almost to the point where John could get lost in sweet, sweet oblivion, but then it was over. He lowered his head, hiding his face behind wet strands of hair. They were done far too soon. His hair was clean and smelled of Winston and the pain was manageable. The _physical_ pain was manageable. Now all that happened came back to him and the memories hit him like a bus. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d done, what kind of monster he was. He would never be able to escape this hell. He needed to just shut down for a while, to not think, to no be in control. Just for a few hours, just until he could keep the demons at bay by himself.

“Winston”, he rasped, grabbing the older man’s arm, yet still not looking at him. “I need you”, he paused again, collecting his thoughts. “to take control.”

“John”

“Please, I’m begging you.”, tears welled up in his eyes. “Make it stop.”

Winston sighed, softly brushing the strands of hair away from the younger man’s face. When he still didn’t look at him, his hand grabbed John’s chin and lifted it, searching for anything, anything at all, that might convince him that there was another way, that he didn’t have to do this to make John feel grounded again.

“I don’t like hurting you, John. But I also don’t like seeing you like this.”

Winston helped him get out of the bath and sat him down on the edge of the tub, before carefully removing the blood soaked towel from his shaking grasp and wrapping several bandages around his torso. The wound had stopped bleeding, thankfully, but the rest of John’s body was a mixture of black and blue.

_Go easy on him_ , he told himself.

“I left my scotch on the cabinet next to the door.”

The younger man immediately jumped at the command and was halfway out of the door, when Winston’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks; “Didn’t you forget something, _boy_?”

John turned around, arms behind his back and head lowered in submission. ~~Winston~~ , no, Sir had taken control and would demand respect.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

“Good boy. I want you kneeling in the middle of the room when I walk through that door. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed him, and focused instead on the articles of clothing scattered all around his bathroom. John’s suit jacket had taken a considerable beating and it would probably not be possible to mend. Neither was his formerly white shirt, which had turned a dark crimson color from the blood and also went directly into the trash. His pants needed a thorough wash but his belt… That belt was in perfect condition, no rips, no tears, no nothing, and touching the rough leather- Well, let’s just say it gave Winston certain ideas.

Meanwhile John was kneeling in the middle of the grand living room of the suite, scotch in hand, waiting for Sir. He’d already made one mistake and usually that was enough to warrant a thorough punishment. Hurting kept him focused, showed him that he was real, that he was safe. He knew he had the power to end it all with a single word, but he never had to use it before. Sir was perfect, Sir cared for him. And when the door of the bathroom opened again he was fully prepared for whatever Sir had planned for him.

He lowered his head, kept his back straight and held up the scotch for Sir to take, which he did eventually. Sir walked around him and he fought hard not to fidget, not to move, not to adjust his posture in case it was wrong in any way. Suddenly a hand grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back.

“Tell me your rules, boy.”

He was taken aback for a moment. _The rules_ , right. It had been such a long time ago. The last time his situation was this serious, he hadn’t been able to focus, had made mistake after mistake after mistake and Sir had given him a set of rules to go over in his head. To keep him from drifting off.

“Proper eyeline”

He knew that. It was the first one Sir had given him, because after years of being constantly alert, his mind didn’t just wander off, it ran. Eyes moving across the room, constantly looking for exits, hidden weapons, ways to escape, to hurt, to kill. But just focusing on one particular object in the room, kept his mind where it needed to be.

“Proper… posture”

At some point, that wasn’t enough anymore. He’d try to focus on an object and suddenly the thoughts would come back, hitting him full force. They would leave him gasping for air, body shaking violently, and then – despite him trying to focus so hard on that one object, trying to be good for Sir – he would break down completely. No longer a perfect picture of submission, he’d lie curled up on the floor in panic. But then Sir would pull him up again, holding him until he could kneel on his own.

“Proper posture, proper eyeline-“

The grip on his hair tightened, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what the third one was.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Arms behind your back and head on the ground, boy.”

He remembered to answer with a “Yes, Sir.” this time, and bent over, his forehead pressing against the cold, hard floor of Sir’s suite. His body ached terribly already, but he knew after Sir was through with him it would be much, much worse. It’d heal, as it had done over and over again, but without this, without Sir putting him in his place, his mind would not.

“Proper eyeline”, Sir repeated.

John had to suppress a scream as the harsh leather of his belt came in contact with his backside. He had tried to prepare himself, but Sir always seemed to know when and where to hit.

“Proper posture”

Again the leather came down on him, this time even harsher than before. The intensity actually made him groan and almost loose his balance.

“Proper-“

Several lashes followed, one worse than the last. He focused all his strength on staying where he was, despite all his instincts telling him to move out of harm’s way. Sir had ordered him to stay in this position and disobeying would only cause more hurt.

“-deportment”

When no more lashes followed, he stupidly allowed himself to relax, only for the final blow to catch him off guard.

“Hng- Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Sir moved to kneel beside him, gently dragging his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. He closed his eyes, feeling completely calm for the first time in weeks. Words couldn’t describe just how grateful he was that Sir had taken mercy on him. He had been half expecting to have the door shut in front of him or simply not being opened at all. It had been late, he would’ve understood.

The hand in his hair tightened and he gasped as Sir forced him back into the upright kneeling position he was in before. With his hair still in an iron grip, Sir moved even closer to him, so close that he could feel his hot breath against his cheek.

“Now tell me your rules, boy.”

He heard Sir place the glass of scotch on the floor and wondered – just for a moment – what he would do to him now that he had both hands. He knew he shouldn’t think. Thinking lead to bad memories. So he focused his eyes on the wooden sideboard and adjusted his position.

“Proper eyeline, proper posture and proper deportment, Sir.”

The hand in his hair relaxed and was back to massaging his head.

“That’s right. Good boy.”

Sir stood up again, towering over him. Once again, he held his belt in his hands and John caught himself wondering if he would get to feel it again soon. It hurt, yes, terribly, his skin was still burning, but it felt so good. It felt right to him. But no, this time Sir put it around his neck, pulling it taut until the cool metal of the buckle was pressed painfully against his neck.

Sir held the other end of the belt and pulled him closer, only stopping when John was kneeling between his legs.

Winston held him there for a moment, relishing the feeling of having John Wick on a leash. The black leather suited him, maybe – and John, once back to his usual self, was surely not going to like the image he had conjured up in his head – he would get him a real collar.

His hands found their way into John’s hair yet again, using it to push his head against his thigh. The younger man leaned into it, relaxing against him, but moments later, Winston felt hands wandering up his thigh towards the buttons of his pants.

“Please, Sir, allow me to repay you.”

He stilled, not knowing how to react. They had never gone this far before, it had always been about making John feel grounded again and never turned sexual. That being said, he couldn’t deny that he was attracted to the younger man, but he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for exploiting him in his most vulnerable moments.

But he _was_ offering.

“Are you sure about this, John?”

He just nodded, pressing his face against the older man’s crotch in a desperate attempt to convince him and Winston felt his walls of defense crumble. In order to regain control of the situation and to remind the man who he was dealing with, he used the belt that was already sitting tightly around his neck to drag John away, leaving the younger man gasping for air.

“Behave, boy.”

After catching his breath, John moved back into the kneeling position he had been in before, back straight, eyes upfront, his hands crossed behind his back as to not succumb to the need to touch him again without explicit permission. Winston liked seeing John like that, kneeling, submitting to him. He liked being in control, but they had never discussed just how far was too far. Then again, John had a safe word. He’d never had to use it thankfully, not even when Winston had taken a whip to his back, but it was there nonetheless.

_Alright._

What he was about to do, would change their relationship forever.

“Come here, boy. You may touch me.”

John’s hands were all over him in an instant, opening his pants, more ripping than pulling them down, with little care about the expensive material and once more Winston’s hands found their way into his hair, giving a warning pull here and there, when the boy got too rough. John spent his time touching every inch of the naked skin that lay before him, seemingly teasing him by ignoring his half hard length. Winston was having none of it. He used the belt to pull John upwards, restricting his breathing once more

“I’m not here for your enjoyment, boy.”

He saw John shiver and for a moment wondered if he had gone too far already, but the look of pure bliss on the man’s features told him that he hadn’t gone nearly far enough. He loosened his pull on the belt a little, allowing him to breathe comfortably again, but tightened his grip on the younger man’s hair, guiding him steadily towards his member.

“You’re here for my pleasure. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m all yours, Sir.”, John all but breathed.

The first thing Winston felt were lips softly closing around the head of his dick, trapping it inside a hot mouth and beginning to suck. Slowly – _so damn slowly_ – John began to take in more and more, stopping occasionally to tease him with a swift motion of his tongue along his shaft. The older man tightened his grip on John’s hair, forcing him off of his dick and simultaneously pulled the belt around his neck taut again.

“What did I just say, boy?”

When John didn’t immediately answer, too focused on controlling his breathing, Winston let go of his hair and slapped him across his face, before immediately returning to his tight grip on John’s hair. The slap had caught the younger man off guard and – had he not held him in place with the belt around his neck – he had no doubt in his mind that that slap would’ve sent him flying.

“You’re here for _my_ pleasure.”, Winston repeated.

His other hand let go of the belt to force John’s mouth open and push him back onto his dick to finish what he had started. He gave John a few seconds to get accustomed to his size, before pushing his full length all the way inside the hot, waiting mouth, staying there until he could feel the other man choking. And when he did begin choking and almost struggling against him, he pulled back a little, allowed him to breathe and calm himself and then thrust back inside.

“You’re here to serve _me_ , boy.”

At that the younger man hummed in agreement, causing warm shivers to run down Winston’s spine. Was he liking this? Were they both enjoying this? He didn’t like seeing John in pain, he didn’t like hurting him, but this… Whatever was happening right now felt good, felt right. He was in complete control of him and John had to take whatever he decided to give to him, be it reward or punishment.

His thrusts became more rough and so did the hands holding the younger man’s head in place. He thought about a collared John Wick, about how the welts on his backside would remind him of this night and of who he belonged to, about how the man shivered in anticipation every time he addressed him, and about them together.

Thrusting deep inside the hot mouth he came and his boy swallowed every drop.

And as Winston carried a passed out John Wick over to his bed, covering his abused body with several, soft blankets, he looked out of the window to see the rain had stopped and a new sun was rising, turning all those dark clouds a warm orange.

Truly, a new chapter had begun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Please tell me what you think! Might make this a lil one shot series, cuz I had a lot of fun writing it


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